


After The Fall

by Vamppirre



Series: Raise Your Voice [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Please Don't Kill Me, Suicide Trigger, all the feels, i have nothing to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamppirre/pseuds/Vamppirre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too late. Just too late. By only a few moments, he was too late</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Fall

The morning started off like it always had, after... that day. It had been almost three years. Three long years of wearing this heavy mask. Of making everyone stop worrying. Of surviving.

John knew that today would be different. He felt it in his soul. Picking up his mobile, he sent a text to Greg and Molly, inviting them to go out to lunch with him. In the end, he eats alone. There's been a terrible accident and the friends send their apoligies, promising to treat him to dinner, seven car pileup be damned (so says Greg, at least).

John smiles through the phone, even though no one can see him. Says not to worry, that he'll b fine. He says goodbye. John pays the bill and walks back to 221b Baker Street. Heart not as light as it could be, but lighter than its been in nearly three years.

Once inside, he greets Mrs. Hudson with a smile and a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. He gives her a hug and says goodnight. Yes, just like any day. John goes upstairs, knowing Mrs. Hudson will give him space here, that she'll leave the flat for a short time.

Sure enough, not even five minutes go by and he hears the front door open and shut, John watches the older woman hustle down the street, off to the market to make a meal for the two of them. He goes into his old room. Sherlock's room. And just breathes for a moment before going into the second drawer by the bed. That's where John took to hiding his gun after the wall incident.

John walks back to the sitting room, where their chairs are still sitting, covered in a light layer of dust. He sits carefully in his, with the pillow at his back, giving him support. John opened and emptied the clip until there was a single bullet. He gave way to a moments thought; this was his end. In a chair, alone. Not at all how he'd imagined going a few years ago. He never thought he'd fall in love, much less a man.

A sad laugh left him as he loaded the one bullet into the chamber. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a single small square of paper. His note. He held it in his hand. A deep breath now.

A flash and a bang. No one outside even paid attention, the sound covered by the honking of a car horn on the street.

Mycroft had told him John would be in their flat today. Exactly three years. Sherlock was almost itching to see John's face again. He knew it wouldn't be all that easy, but it felt good to be on Baker Street again. To be home. Mrs. Hudson was still at the market, this would give Sherlock ample time to make up with the doctor.

Mycroft had given him updates on John, sometimes a picture or two. Sherlock could tell he took it badly. For the first few months, John's haggard face had been saved on his phone. Followed by reports that he was getting better, healing from his mourning. As a reminder that he would try and hurry with unravelling Moriarty's web, but every thing takes time. Sherlock took a deep breath. A car horn went off behind him on the street, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly opened the door and went inside.

It was all the same as he'd remembered. John's cane, still where they'd left it after that first night. John's coat. Not bothering to remove any layers, just incase John decided to hit him, he would like some cushion. Sherlock carefully walked up the stairs, steppinh around the creaky areas with skilled practice. When he finally could see the chairs in the sitting area, he saw a hand, then John. Sherlock smiled, of course John would be asleep here.

Sherlock's smile faded when the smell of blood entered his nose. A smell he'd come to know well. He moved with heavy limbs. Then he saw the gun, beside the hand, under the hand. For a moment Sherlock couldn't breathe. This shouldn't be. Sherlock reached out a shakey hand to John's hand, feeling for a pulse. There wouldn't be one. Sherlock's eyes drifted up to the neat, little bullet hole in John's right temple. A small rivlet of blood moving slowly down. He was still warm. Sherlock moved back until he fell into his chair.

Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest, forcing his tired body to curl in on itself. He let out a shuddering wail before burying his head in his knees. He cried and cried. He was gone. John was gone. If he had only moved faster, if he hadn't hesitated outside. Then he could have stopped John. Could have saved him.

Sherlock looked up at the body -no at John- this was still his John, his army doctor. Through blurry eyes, he looked at him. For anything... There! Feeling weak, Sherlock moved to the still body, to the paper in the cold hands. Opening it, Sherlock saw it was addressed to him.

Sherlock, forgive me. I never told you, you were the best thing to happen to me in my entire life. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you like you saved me. They say that suiciders go to purgatory, to spent their time until they are reborn or until they repent. I guess I'll see you soon. I never got to tell you. I love you, you mad, bloody genius.

Sherlock kneeled in front of John's now cold body. He knew he would have to make the call. To report this. He didn't think he could stand Mycroft's coldnrss, but he also didn't want Lesturade's accusing glare. The gun was looking like a good out. The option was taken out of his hands when he heard the front door open. Sherlock rose stiffly and with a soft caress against the pale skin of a bowed head, soft, short blond hair, he walked towards the stairs and somehow made it to Mrs. Hudson's door. Rapping softly against the door, he heard her cheery voice coming closer.

Mrs. Hudson open the door with a smile on her face, but then saw Sherlock. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him to her in a crushing embrace, too strong than he thought she was capable of. "Sherlock..." She sobbed and laughed into his scarf covered neck. "I'm suprised John hasn't shot you yet. Coming back from the dead, with your coat. A good fright you gave me." Sherlock held onto her, his arms strong with muscles that weren't there before, but three years is a long time. Mrs. Hudson noticed Sherlock hadn't let go, and when she mentioned John, he held onto her like a drowning man. "Sherlock, where's John?"

"Johnis gone. Call Lasturade please." Then he released her and squirmed out of her grasp. Sherlock didn't turn back when he heard her call for him. He was going back to John. He was going to wait with him. Sherlock folds himself into the chair beside John's cold body, holding him. He doesn't know how long has gone by, but he finally moves when he hears footsteps stomping on the stairs. It would be "a bit not good" -as John would say- for the police to find him holding a dead body. Sherlock didn't meet the Inspector's eyes.

"He was like this when I came in. Mrs. Hudson was still out. I suspect that he fired not long after she left. A few seconds to a full minute before I came into the flat."

Greg came to Baker Street, expecting to find John and a beaten Sherlock. He was mostly right. Sherlock was facing the window, away from the body. Greg knew he was hurt, more than anyone in the world. Just like John was. "Why aren't you dead, Sherlock?" He hoped the git had a damn good reason. "No, you know what? I don't care. You left and he died inside. This is because of you." This was the anger talkung, and Greg knew that this was the.wrong thing to say to anyone, but that didn't stop it from being true.

"I will text Mycroft to come and get me. You won't have to deal with me for much longer. Mycroft will contact you with his arrangements and his will." Sherlock walked around the speechless man and out of the flat.

When Greg looked iut the window, Sherlock was getting into a black car, and driving up. He rubbed his reddening eyes and turned to the cold corpse. “I am so sorry, John.” Greg took a deep rattling breath and made the call for one gun shot victim, suicide. A 221b Baker Street. Victim is dead. Male. A few minutes later, he was holding a teary Mrs. Hudson outside the flat while they took the body out. Donovan couldn't hold back her tears either. John and her had become close after Sherlock's... absence.

At St. Bart, Molly had the unfortunate task of doing a suicide. When she unzipped the bag, she choked out a cry. She almost ran out of the room, telling her supervisor she knew the victim. She ran to the saftey of the locker room for the rest of her shift.

One week later, the funeral gor John H. Watson was held. Molly, Greg, Anderson, Donovan, and many others were in attendence. Mrs. Hudson sat in the front next to John's sister. The older woman crying softly into the younger's embrace. John's surviving army friends. The only one not there it would seem was the one person that was needed. John was sent off in his uniform, given no gun salute, as per his will and because it seemed tasteless to his sister. Words were said, then people stared as the casket was lowered into the ground.

Everyone left save for Greg. He felt like he'd failed the man. That he should have seen that John really wasn't alright. "You honestly couldn't have known." Sherlock's voice broke into the silence. "Even Mycroft thought he was getting better, or he would have taken him until I came back. In his updates, he was sure John was recovering." 

Sherlock moved to leave when Greg stopped him. "This wasn't your fault, Sherlock. I was wrong to say that."

Sherlock shook his head, looking at Greg. "This is my fault. I had to disappear to destroy Moriarty's network. I just didn't move fast enough. I was literally no more than a minute late. If I had not hesitated, John would still be alive." Sherlock looked at the grave once more before turning around. "Goodbye, Gregory Lesturade." Greg watched him get into a black car again and drive off. He also looked at the grave. John was buried with the empty casket of Sherlock Holmes. And he.wondered if Sherlock would have been able to stop John.

Inside the car Sherlock sat next to Mycroft. "I know it hurts, Sherlock. That's one of the side effects of caring. Tell me, little brother, was it worth it?"

Sherlick thought the words over. In his mind palace was every day he had spent with the ex-army doctor. "It was more than worth it. Every single day." Sherlock smiled, a sad broken smile. "Please take me home. Not to Baker Street." Sherlock closed his eyes and his mind after that. Mycroft knew his brother was gone into his mind palace. He looked at Anthea, she shook her head, not knowing how to comfort the younger brother.

The great Sherlock Holmes was truely lost without his blogger. When they arrived at the family estate, Sherlock shut himself in his room. Taking out John's note, he reread it until his eyes hurt. Sherlock never took cases with Lesturade again, even though Greg had sent many cases his way. His heart just wasn't in them. When Mycroft tried to get him involved, Sherlock would throw himself into the cases, working until he dropped from exaustion and starvation. Mycroft stopped asking after the third time. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't want to eat, it was that every meal somehow brought up memories of John and he would end up crying until he fell asleep.

Every month, on Mondays, Mrs. Hudson would come to John's grave, since the snow had fallen, it had become difficult, but she still came. Sometimes she found small things on the grave, little things like a beaker of some strange liquid or small rare flowers. She knew Sherlock was coming to the grave. After a nasty blizzard, she managed to go the next day, what she found made her cry. Sherlock, in his coat and scarf, leaning against the headstone, pale as the snow that covered him. She make the shakey call to Lesturade, telling him what had happened. Later, Mycroft would be brought into St Bart's, in the hallway a crying Molly was being held by a haggard looking Gregory. Mycroft asked what the cause of death was. "Suicide by overdose" Greg replied. He handed Mycroft the note that was found with him. It had just three words. "I'm coming, John."

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I think in sound rather than with just snapshots. The song I thought of was After The Fall by Two Steps From Hell. This story comes from this picture. What I imagine happened.  
> http://www.pinterest.com/pin/44754590022114279/


End file.
